Look around you. Look at the golden stone of the walls, glistening with history and secrets. Look at the elegant, arched windows that shine with the rich colours of the past. You stand in what was once the dining room of the enchanting Castle du Rêve. Some say that if you listen closely enough, you will be able to hear the distant music of a grand medieval banquet in the main hall, the trotting of noble horses across the courtyard, the whispering of voices long dead.
Castle du Rêve was built for Edward du Rêve following the Norman Conquest. For hundreds of years, the castle was known by all of Silenshore for lavish banquets, indulgence and pleasure. Some of the castle has been replaced since those strange medieval times, but its legacy remains ensnared in the walls that stand around you.
During World War II, Castle du Rêve became the home to evacuee children from London, who were hosted by Robert and Catherine du Rêve. The children were astonished to begin their strange new lives in the castle, for the ways of the du Rêves were so very different from the ones they had left behind. The du Rêves continued, in spite of the gloom that pervaded the country, to throw opulent parties and serve mysteriously copious amounts of butter, and dance as though everything was wonderful. Children were seen running through the lush green gardens, playing in the courtyard and riding well-groomed ponies across the cobbles.
It was after the war that the castle became blanketed in mystery. For in spite of the du Rêves’ generosity, their fortune appeared to run out suddenly. One night they vanished from the castle without a trace and within a few weeks, Silenshore University opened. The warm glow of glittering lights faded from within and became replaced with piles of books and the shouts of students. The life of the castle as a private home, and as Castle du Rêve, was over.
The du Rêves have not been seen by anybody since they left the castle. Some say that their wealth was in land only: that they drowned in rising taxes and repairs needed on the castle, and sold it to the University before the grand estate crumbled into a tragic ruin. After all, castles do not glitter without some gold behind them.
Others say that the du Rêves were always rich, but that a scandal forced them to pack their shimmering finery and shoot off into the frozen twilight, never to be seen again.
It is possible that the du Rêves returned to France after hundreds of years in England. Some say they left something here, more than the memory of sparkling jewels and charming smiles and balls. They whisper that one or more of the du Rêves are amongst us, living a life so different from the one of wealth and plenty that they had. Perhaps this is so. Perhaps there is a du Rêve beside you, or behind you. Perhaps you are a du Rêve yourself. Perhaps you will never know.
V. Lace, 1964
Silenshore University
My Queen,
I’m writing to you because I don’t quite know what else to do.
You told me that you were going with Sally to take care of her aunt, but I saw Sally working in Clover’s today. I asked how her aunt was, and she said that she doesn’t have an aunt.
If it hadn’t been for Sally’s name badge then I would perhaps have doubted myself. But I know it was her, and so I know that what you told me wasn’t the truth.
I want to see you. Where are you? Why are you hiding from me? Please, stop running from me and, if you get this, write back to me. Tell me.
Yours,
H.
Isobel sits watching strands of her brittle auburn hair float to the ground like autumn leaves.
Today is a day for change.
As she stares at herself in the vast mirror, Isobel thinks of Tom and watches her lips curve into a small, excited smile. She hasn’t had her hair cut since she met him. But Tom seems to be the type of man who will notice a shorter, blunter cut. He’ll notice, and he’ll like it.
The hairdresser is intrigued by the developments in Isobel’s love life since her last haircut. She asks forthright questions about Tom as she snips into ribbons of Isobel’s hair. Isobel answers each question precisely, her words singing along with the hum of hairdryers and the clicking of straighteners. She could talk about him all day long if she had to.
They’ve been together for about a month.
He was married, but he’s been divorced for ages.
He’s a chef at an Italian restaurant in Ashwood.
He lives in a flat at the promenade end of Silenshore.
He’s older than Isobel, but that doesn’t matter for now.
It’s just as there’s a lull in conversation, as she sits in the swivelling leather chair with only her own gigantic reflection to look at, that Isobel feels a colossal wave of nausea rising through her body.
‘Fringe?’ the hairdresser asks, her scissors poised at Isobel’s pale forehead.
Isobel nods, not because she wants a fringe, but because the sickness is so all-consuming that she can’t speak and she can’t think.
This is the third time this has happened in the past week.
Isobel brings her hand up to her mouth, the black cape that the hairdresser put on her spreading like a raven’s wing and spilling her hair ends out onto the floor. She closes her eyes, tries to forget how potent the toxic smells of bleach and shampoo are. She takes a breath, and then another, and wonders for a moment if it’s passed. But then, like a momentarily still wave, the nausea roars up again, spilling from Isobel in a humiliating fountain of vomit. It spills out from her hands, through her fingers, splashing out onto the tiled floor.
The hairdresser steps back and Isobel wipes her mouth with her sleeve, then immediately regrets it.
‘I am so, so sorry,’